Come hither, O mistress. Cast your lovely gaze to where I hang by a fragile claw from the top of the window coverings. This petite snag is unhappily interfering with my planned afternoon activity of licking beneath my left leg. Oh ho! Look how I make the jest! Alas. Sister-of-my-Heart is of no assistance as she is engaged in her afternoon activity of napping. Wherefore art thou, oh heart? I most anxiously await your blessed return.
Perhaps you are in awe of my astonishing flourishes?
Look how I invite upon the page the question mark.
In a previous life when we were the brindled companions of the Muttering Bard he wrote of us extensively within his homage to us entitled MacBeth. If Sister-of-my-Heart had not spilled a pot of ink upon his parchment pages, more of his scratchings about us would have survived to be read than “Thrice the brindled cat hath mewed.” The extraneous plot points of the Scottish General and his tedious pursuits have been the unwitting recipients of the tragic ink accident. Except it was not entirely an accident but more a willful compulsion to irritate. And thus the true intent of the manuscript to illuminate the saga of two sacred felines who traverse the ages was lost. Perhaps you have heard of our Muttering Bard and his modest attempts toward theatre? We were his most generous of muses. How fondly I recollect when once upon a time he was unhappy with having to recreate the ending of a new tail. Oops, ha ha, tale, look I commit a homophone. How am I knowing this, I ponder. I know not. Is it food? But I continue: once, I inadvertently deliberately shredded the last pages of a new writing about addled star-crossed lovers. He was thusly inspired to create a more exciting offering in which they meet their demise at the end of the play. This is much more interesting in contrast to his original concoction in which the pair wed and became dull with happiness. He named us in honour of those characters although Sister-of-my-Heart was not pleased and would never answer to “Here Romeo. Come hither pretty Romeo.” Within those pages there is scant reference to us, a piddling nod with “Every cat and dog and every little mouse and every unworthy thing may look upon her but Romeo may not.” It becomes immediately obvious why the play was pronounced as and remains detestable. Also, not edible.
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